


Our Gentle Sin

by Cut Out Stars (Coldest_Fire)



Series: These Violent Ends [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dru learns that consensual sex can be good, F/M, First Time, Fix-It, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Light Dom/sub, Masturbation, Masturbation with Instructions, Neither of them happens on screen between Spike and Dru, and both have a magical time, for both of them bc Spike is new to sex and Dru is new to consent, it amuses me that D/s could be Dru/spike or Dom/sub and both fit, light femdom?, porn but like a character study, these warnings are both remembering previous encounters w Angelus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:48:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29325726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coldest_Fire/pseuds/Cut%20Out%20Stars
Summary: William, a new vampire, has barely settled into his new life with Drusilla, and barely figured out how to navigate the whole Angelus situation. Together, they figure out how to enjoy the things their bodies do, and Dru learns a kind of power and control she's never had.He’s something beautiful. Her skin tingles. It’s warm, even if she’s been dead two decades. She can’t resist a taste of him, both to know the feelings, and that she hasn’t hurt him. She strokes his chest, where his heart once beats and drifts into him. He’s so warm, thrumming like a heartbeat. He is alive, clear headed, as though he might sail away any moment. Such a strange and delicious feeling. She stayed in him to savour it—savour herself, she realized. She’d never taken that kind of pleasure in the act. She returns as he does, whispering, “you feel so good, my knight.”It feels good because he wants her.
Relationships: Drusilla/Spike (BtVS)
Series: These Violent Ends [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2154084
Kudos: 4





	Our Gentle Sin

**Author's Note:**

> I told y'all I couldn't leave Painted Eyes where it was. here I am with another option. This is implied to be post-Destiny (and operates off some of the head cannons in a fic on my main profile: These Violent Delights) basically, Spike knows how fucked up things are, and what's going on between Angelus and Dru.

She waits for Spike to do it to her. He’s so delicate. He’s never sung in the church, poor thing, his eyes aren’t yet made of glass, and he doesn’t turn hers to glass either. He kisses her like she’s a part of it, and it feels sick—perhaps she does. She doesn’t know which. It’s confusing around him. He’s kissing her, she’s in his arms. This is supposed to take her inside him.

He’s going so slow. Is he trying to make it beg him to put the body in its place?

She won’t.

She _can’t._

His lips on the back of her neck, his hands slowly up one thigh, that’s more like it. That’s it. He touches so gingerly. Perhaps he’s trying not to be sullied by what he’s touching. A good man, a poet. She’d longed for him in ways she knew were outside what she was. “I haven’t done this before,” he whispers, “I need you to tell me how it feels.”

_“Cruel,”_ she hisses. She can’t be inside him if she talks. It’s taken worse beatings for not responding to Angelus—it can take it. She is too much inside him not to want it to.

He kisses the side of her neck, not the side with the scars, he avoids that. His fingers run up and down the hole, trying to gather wetness that isn’t there. He licks his fingers, and tries again. She doesn’t understand. It gets slick when it bleeds. His finger glides, up and down. The feeling is wrong. It’s light. It’s too soft. She is deeper in the body.

His finger circles some little scar, probably. She can’t remember if it was there _before_. It doesn’t respond like a scar. It fires. Her thighs tense. Her lips tighten. The hole clenches. It fires.

He stops, “love?”

She doesn’t have any right to tell him what to do to it. _Her._ She can’t get out. “What are you doing?”

He stops, withdraws to her thigh. “I- sorry. I’ve never done this. Did that feel alright?”

He knows nothing about this place. She could cry. “You don’t understand it,” she admits, words hissing like air from a slit throat. She seeps, “that’s not how to use it. That’s not what the eyes and the glass prescribe.”

He stiffens. “I... I’m not a glass sword. We talked about what kind of knight I was,” he doesn’t understand. She wants him to hear her. She wants to be in him. She wants it to suffer. Selfishly, she wants him to put it back together when she’s back inside.

She sighs. More air, why is the jugular not for use? “Can’t leave it till you cut the strings and pull it. Can’t be inside until you’re inside.”

He shakes his head, “I…I don’t know what that means. I’m guessing here, and I’m out of my depth,” he admitted, hardly looking at her. “There’s a lot I don’t understand. Cutting strings… being inside… it isn’t anything I’ve ever done,” he trails off, “some of it is something I don’t think I can. Cutting strings… I found you, that night, strings cut, violent ends…” he tries, seeing if that was what she meant. She nods, and bids him continue. He’s finally getting it.

“I… can’t do that. That isn’t… I’m not a sword, love. I promised to protect you. In my words, this is about love, and pleasure,” he intones. This is the most he’s ever talked about it, she suspects. His words come slow and arduously. He has to drag them out of himself. “The way I imagine it, it’s… love, made in flesh. It’s bodies that aren’t separate entities, and moments after, together. I used to expect to marry first.”

His words are familiar and foreign. Marriage. Making love. That was left on a church floor. The night she died. _Love and pleasure_ aren’t for the undead—well, pleasure is. He takes great pleasure. She takes something from being inside him. His vision isn’t real. It isn’t right any longer. Maybe it never was, she was a wicked thing, they said. “It’s cruel to tell me stories—here it’s red and pink and violet?” She insists, “and hot and seeping. Against it, inside while he’s inside. War. It’s hiding inside you hard. _Harder_. Can’t break it if I break it. You must be cross. I’m not supposed to leave. _She_ makes me stay.”

The ways Darla touched hurt worse during. She didn’t let her out.

Something bled in William’s eyes. They seep. It’s wrong—not the part he’s to play. He covered his mouth. “I can’t...” he admits finally, “I can’t hurt you. Love, you were bleeding.” He knows because he cleaned her off. She likes it when he doesn’t leave her to the suffering too long. She deserves the cost—he doesn’t like the rules. She chose a poet for the way he dances through them. Makes mockery of what was spoken, but even he has to abide it. The stars spoke, the angel spoke, the saints spoke, and she’d found her way to take it.

“Would you let me try my way?” He pleads, “try without cutting strings and leaving?” He tries. “You can tell me to stop. Or even not to do it, and I won’t. Can I try this?” He’s sincere. His ribs ache like all those words he’s penned. She doesn’t know why. He doesn’t owe her that, and he couldn’t want it, not with what she was. All she had to offer was a vacant corpse—it’s what he left her, all those years ago.

She shakes her head. Can’t start taking thing that aren’t for her. “Can’t be inside you if I can leave,” she says, almost mournfully. That’s what she needs, the mortification of the flesh—the escape from it. She is not flesh. She’s not what bleeds. She’s not what hurts. Thats what she was, and she escapes like the warped soul of someone so wicked as to draw the devil on her heels. Someone whose last act was a sin—to plead for the ending. Both of them, everything that’s ever animated that flesh knows how to leave.

“You can,” he says, bravely. He looks like he wants to exit his own skin. She grips his arm, to be sure he stays. How does he expect her inside without leaving? She can’t be in both of them, whatever his pretty words said. “I’ve seen- Darla does it. To him. Bends him over something and... he was furious I saw.” His face is red now, he can’t look at her. She realizes that seems depraved to him. Does he know what she is? “She was inside him. Something bound to her waist for it. You could be inside me with your body.”

“Would I?” She asked, too taken aback to know what to say. Darla could. She couldn’t possibly. She’d taken it that way before. Hurt worse. Wasn’t right. It always bled. It wasn’t right to hurt him worse to spare herself. He’d have to feel it.

“We... I have oil, to slicken your fingers. I haven’t tried it yet, but I would. You can be inside me, and I can see if you could want to be in your own body?” He doesn’t know it’s going to hurt him. Her creator never let on when it hurt, but she could see it. Made him vicious. Wanted to be the one leaving marks. It isn’t her place—William can’t take it out on anything but paper. She can’t hurt him, not when she’s selfish enough to want his care. She shouldn’t even entertain the notion. If she doesn’t make him bleed, it isn’t _so_ bad, she hopes. Perhaps it’s even a test, and if she fails, things will return to normal. She can’t imagine so cruel a test from him.

She can’t imagine hurting him, whatever the power tastes like between their lips. It’s wicked of her to want anything like it.

“Could you show me?” She asks, voice disarmingly innocent. She could have been asking for anything. She starts to peel back the blanket, as he unbuttons, and then removes his pants. He’s flushed red as he does so, pants down, his cock half hard. His weapon is exposed. Hard to believe he has no intention to use it. She wonders if it really gets him hard, thinking of her inside him. He spreads his thighs, showing her everything. She stares _lecherously._ She’s done so much against the will of the stars and the glass. Might as well earn her hell tonight. His skin is pale, flushed with blood and arousal. It’s soft—he’s never known this kind of touch, she realizes. Wonders what she looked like that long ago. Her hands drift over his skin, just to take in the feeling.

Maybe if he touches for her, she won’t hurt him. No need for blood. He won’t hurt himself, she hopes. “If I was inside you, I could guide your hand,” she urges him. “I’d control just where it went. Just how, but you’d have to let me move you. Can’t move without you.”

He obeys. His face is near crimson when he coats two fingers in oil, and then rings his hole in it. She’s entranced at the movement, it’s almost dizzying.It looks so tight. That’s why it hurts. More oil, more circles—she’s dizzy. She feels as though it’s a violation even to watch. “Am I inside you?” She asks, wondering if he’s afraid. It’s alright. He doesn’t have to do it. This could stop.

He nods, and she watches the muscles push apart, slowly let the tip of one oiled finger in for her. Her eyes are ravenous. He doesn’t seem to tense—none of the muscles in his legs or chest are stiff. “Oh,” his other hand claps over his mouth. He bites his lip. “Oh- _fuck,”_ his cock is getting harder. She can’t imagine what he’s feeling right now. She watches his face, His eyes closing, and then opening to meet hers. “You-you’re inside me love…” He trails off. He’s asking her what she’d do next. She doesn’t know. She can’t fathom it.

She wishes for a moment she was actually inside him. “Would you go deeper?” She hears herself say. “All of it?”

He doesn’t hesitate, but slides the finger all the way in a slow, fluid motion. His eyes tighten, and his cock twitches. She watches it almost as intently as she watches him. She controls his hands. He pulses around the finger, making attempts at words. She hears him. He’s begging for it. She takes his wrist. Guides it in and out, draws a groan out of him. She slides him like an instrument, in and out, in and out. His hips follow. They take it with her. It’s beautiful.

He feels at her mercy—feels when she wants him to. She stops his hand. He whines. “You wanted _me_ to sing a little song, my knight?” She reminds. She asks as though she cannot read him, as though she needs to hear him to know his thoughts. It’s only fair—he wanted the same from her— far stranger. 

His face red, he says, “it—it feels good, love. It’s so…you’re inside me,” he can hardly string his words together. He’s beautiful like this, a little disarrayed, flushed, full of his own fingers and following her direction. Needing her in ways that feel like things she can’t fathom.

“Do you want more?” She asks, moving his hand again, just slightly, enough he gave a low hum. He’s the prettiest song for her.

His voice almost breaks when he says, _“please?”_

She obliges, tugging back on his wrist so only the tip of the first finger is in him, “give yourself more then,” she tells him, releasing his wrist so he can choose the speed. Can’t let him get hurt. It’s causing her such strange and delicious feelings, watching him pleasure himself. She wants to replace his fingers with her own, just to feel him. See what secret ecstasy he’s feeling.

He obeys, sliding the tip of his second finger in, to much the same gasping and biting his lip. The same profanity that spills like the most beautiful litany from his lips, as though she’s a goddess and not just the extant bits of a masterpiece. Her William never ceases to amaze her. After a second to adjust, he’s sinking the fingers into himself slowly. His cock is harder than it was, nearly standing up from his body. Red and tender. She wonders, if she touched him right now, what would happen. She can almost picture the sound he’d make, the way his hips would ride his fingers. Not time yet. She wants to watch him. A few more slow, measured thrusts and he’s writhing.

Such a good boy, letting her take him. Showing her how he feels. She reaches for the oil. Far more satisfying, now she knows it won’t hurt him. No blood. No pain. His eyes can hardly stay open. He’s savouring it. She coats two of her fingers, making sure he sees her doing it. He groans, pulling his fingers out for her. His eyes are so dark, so full of want. She can’t imagine the things he feels, even if she’s watching it.Not like anything she’s seen or felt—all the futures she’s seen and he isn’t like anything she knows. He _wants_ to feel it. She slides into him. Both fingers at once—he’s gotten himself ready for her. He moans, and arches into her. It’s different when it's her. Her fingers are smaller, thin, but it feels different when he doesn’t know every movement. “Would you talk to me, my knight?” She asks.

He’s not even flushed—they’re so far past shame. He takes a moment—she’s caught her poet without words. “Feels so good…” he trails off, “please…”

She finds the pace he was moving at, and just thrusts her fingers in and out, spreading them ever so slightly. He’s louder than he was before, rewarding her with a long string of pleas and moans, even the occasional expletive. He’s begging her to touch him—this is just enough for him to be riding the edge of ecstasy, but not enough to push him over. She’s in no rush. She’s savouring all the sounds he makes, and the way he rides her fingers. His hips move against her. He wants this enough he’s taking it, taking her, speeding her along with his movements. “Do you want it?” She asks, just like she did when last she took him. Perhaps it’s as transformative for her.

“Please,” he says, just as he did all those short days earlier. She smiles, leaning forward to see him more clearly, then laying her head on his stomach. The sound he makes when her hand first touches his cock is _heavenly_. The relief in his moan, still riding her fingers, as she strokes up and down his shaft. She’s never been so present—desiring nothing more than to feel him tip over the edge in her hand.

He’s incoherent, some mixture of gasping out her name, and pleas, and sounds. She feels him throbbing in her hands, clenching around her fingers. When he spills into her hand, she keeps going, keeps thrusting and pumping until he’s limp and her hand is sticky with him. When his hips slow, she withdraws her fingers and wipes them off on the sheets, along with her other hand, coated in him. He’s still twitching, still coming down. Her body blankets his for these moments. She’s never been this present, never taken the lead in _how_ she pleasured anyone. She likes to be there, she realizes, likes to control how, and when and to feel him in her hands.

He’s something beautiful. Her skin tingles. It’s warm, even if she’s been dead two decades. She can’t resist a taste of him, both to know the feelings, and that she hasn’t hurt him. She strokes his chest, where his heart once beats and drifts into him. He’s so warm, thrumming like a heartbeat. He is alive, clear headed, as though he might sail away any moment. Such a strange and delicious feeling. She stayed in him to savour it—savour herself, she realized. She’d never taken that kind of pleasure in the act. She returns as he does, whispering, “you feel so good, my knight.”

It feels good because he _wants_ her. It’s the difference. It doesn’t hurt because his body lets her in as much as he always has. He takes her in to new depths. The want to feel. She’s never known that, and, secretly, she’s excited to learn the what he’s to do. They had a deal. He let her inside him, and then he got to try to please her. She had dreaded it. Now she wonders if her body can do what his just did. She expects, if it can, it’s soon to.

He exhales shakily, “love, that was…”

“Wasn’t like anything,” she fills in, “Would you let me do it again?”

His smile is easy, his head still light, “I’d let you do that any time you wanted,” he admits, “I’ve never felt anything like that…” he flushes and admits, “I like it when…” he stops, bites his lip, and then tries, quieter, a confession, “I like it when you tell me how…or when you make me ask for it…” the last part of his confession comes even more softly, “I like you controlling me.”

He doesn’t know what that means to her. He doesn’t—Can’t understand that he’s just given her something she could never have, and that he’s thanking her for what might be the first moments she’s had of control of her body. He really is perfect. Told the stars that their names were written together, even when it hurt him. She believes he’s right. It’s the first she’s believed the stars capable of giving her something that doesn’t hurt. “I like feeling you.”

**Author's Note:**

> So yes, there is an impending part three. It's just that sex takes SO long to write.


End file.
